I still remember sitting in our old Mitsubishi Pajero, my thirteen-year-old sister scribbling away in the back seat.
She’d close her eyes for a moment, then snap them open to jot something down. Over and over. My ten-year-old self was convinced she’d lost it. More baffling? She never got carsick, despite the rough city roads. Ulaanbaatar wasn’t exactly known for fixing potholes quickly.
I had no idea what she was writing, but she was completely absorbed. On the way home, she was at it again.
For weeks, Jerilyn carried that notebook everywhere—in stores, at school, at church. Eventually, she transferred her work to the computer.
One late night, she shoved the laptop into my hands.
“Hey, Jen—will you read this?”
I set aside the book I was reading and glanced at the screen. The name Haley was bolded at the top.
“What is it?”
She hesitated, her eyes darting away. “It’s…a book I’m starting to write.”
“You’re writing a book?!” I was thrilled—for her and for the chance to read something new.
“Well…I’m not really a reader. Or a writer. So I need you to tell me if it’s any good.”
I immediately started reading. The pages were a conglomeration of short scenes, and fragmented ideas—but I saw where she was going. One page had a character running through the woods (the one she’d written in the car). Another showed a principal interrogating a student.
I was hooked.
That night, we talked for hours. About the plot. About the characters. About what worked and what didn’t.
And we never stopped talking.
Over time, our conversations shifted from just the story to the impact we wanted it to have. We wanted to create a book our own children would read and enjoy one day. We talked about how so many kids today don’t read—not because they don’t like stories, but because they haven’t found the right book yet. And we hoped ours might be that book for at least one teenager.
And through it all, we kept talking. (Much to the chagrin of our family and friends—turns out, we’re quite long-winded.)
Now that our first book is officially published, I find myself overwhelmingly grateful. Grateful for the young girl who scribbled in the back of that bumpy car ride. Grateful that she was brave enough to share her story with her (occasionally annoying) younger sister. Grateful that she let me leave my own imprint on her book idea and turn it into something that became ours.
We pushed through criticism. We encouraged each other. We kept writing. (Special thanks to our parents for listening to endless drafts.)
And if you ever find yourself writing in the back of a car, no matter your age or location, know this—you might end up grateful too. However long it takes, it’s worth it.
Just keep reading. Keep writing.
– Jenette